Episode 5

 The soft glow of dawn crept through Mia Torres’ apartment window at 6:15 AM, casting long shadows across her cluttered living room. The clock on her phone confirmed it—12:39 AM had passed hours ago in West Africa, but here in New York, a new day had begun. The emerald gown hung neatly on her closet door, a reminder of last night’s debut, while the key card to Ethan Caldwell’s art studio rested on her table, its sleek surface glinting in the light. Sleep had eluded her, her mind buzzing with the auction, the Van Gogh sketch, and the weight of her new reality. Now, with the city stirring outside, it was time to act.

Mia pulled on a pair of paint-splattered jeans and a loose blouse, her hands trembling slightly as she gathered her sketchpad and the key card. The promise of supplies—delivered by Claire late last night—waited at Ethan’s studio, a penthouse space he’d mentioned in passing. She’d seen the boxes stacked by her door: canvases, acrylics, brushes, all top-tier, far beyond her usual budget. It was a lifeline, but also a tether to him. She slipped on her sneakers and headed out, the morning air cool against her skin as she hailed a cab.

The ride to Manhattan was quiet, the driver lost in his own world, leaving Mia to her thoughts. The key card felt heavy in her pocket, a symbol of the deal she’d struck. Last night had been a performance, but today was about her art—her escape, her control. The cab pulled up to a sleek high-rise, its glass facade reflecting the rising sun. She took a deep breath and stepped inside, the lobby’s marble floors echoing with her steps as she flashed the key card at security.

The elevator whisked her to the top floor, opening into a sprawling studio bathed in natural light. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the Hudson River a silver thread in the distance. The space was pristine—white walls, polished wood floors, and a long table laden with the supplies Claire had delivered. Canvases leaned against the wall, and a rack held brushes of every size. In the center stood an easel, the Van Gogh sketch framed beside it, its bold strokes a silent challenge.

Mia set her sketchpad down and ran her fingers over a tube of cadmium red, the pigment rich and unopened. It was surreal, a dream she’d chased for years now within reach. She selected a canvas, propped it on the easel, and squeezed paint onto a palette, the colors vivid against the white. Her hands moved almost on instinct, sketching the gala’s chandelier from memory, its prisms fracturing the light. But as she painted, Ethan’s face emerged—his sharp jaw, the flicker of pain in his eyes. She paused, brush hovering, surprised by the shift.

The door clicked open behind her, and she turned to see Ethan entering, a coffee cup in hand. He wore a casual blazer over a dark shirt, his hair slightly mussed, as if he’d rushed over. “Didn’t expect you this early,” he said, his voice warm but curious. “How does it feel?”

“Like a dream,” she admitted, setting the brush down. “Thanks for this. It’s… more than I imagined.”

He stepped closer, peering at the canvas. “That’s me, isn’t it?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes held a question.

Mia flushed, nodding. “It started as the chandelier, but… yeah, it changed. Sorry if that’s weird.”

“Not weird,” he said, his gaze softening. “It’s honest. Keep going. I like seeing myself through your eyes.”

She picked up the brush again, emboldened by his approval. They fell into an easy silence, Ethan watching as she layered colors, the portrait taking shape. After a while, he spoke. “Last night worked. The media’s buzzing—*Caldwell’s New Protégé* is trending. Lila’s not happy.”

Mia’s stroke faltered. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good for me,” he said, his smile tight. “Bad for her. But it means more eyes on you. Ready for that?”

She swallowed, focusing on the canvas. “I’ll have to be. What’s next?”

“Tomorrow, a gallery opening. You’ll show a piece—something from today, if you’re up for it. I’ve arranged a spot.”

The request jolted her, but the canvas before her felt like a sign. “Okay,” she said. “But it’s my work, my choice what to show.”

“Deal,” he agreed, raising his coffee in a mock toast. “I’ll leave you to it. Call if you need anything.”

He left, the door clicking shut, and Mia exhaled, her shoulders relaxing. She painted for hours, the portrait evolving—Ethan’s face now held a hint of vulnerability, a contrast to his public mask. By noon, she stepped back, satisfied. It was raw, personal, and perfect for the gallery.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of color and focus, the studio becoming her sanctuary. Claire texted with details for tomorrow—dress, time, and a car pickup. Mia replied, her confidence growing with each brushstroke. As evening fell, she packed up, the finished piece wrapped carefully. The key card stayed in her pocket, a promise of more days like this.

Back home, she hung the gown from the auction and sketched the studio’s view, her mind replaying Ethan’s words. Revenge drove him, but something else lingered—respect, maybe even interest. She shook the thought away, focusing on the gallery. Tomorrow, her art would speak, and she’d prove her worth beyond the deal.

The city lights flickered outside, a silent audience to her transformation. Mia set her sketchpad down, ready for the next step in this *Luxury Heartbreak*.

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